


Mixing Pride and Dollar Signs

by Glitchgoat



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitchgoat/pseuds/Glitchgoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro's ego is easily wounded; he doesn't accept help when it's offered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mixing Pride and Dollar Signs

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr prompt from an anon:  
> "brodave prompt~ Dave starts finding clues that Bro is not as well off, money wise, as he's making it seem. Cheap frozen meals in the freezer, food stamps in his wallet, even his site is down because he couldn't keep up with server costs! So Dave gets a job without telling him and just sort of. Gives him his first paycheck. Initiate Bro being a complete shit about it, and eventually having a breakdown so Dave has to comfort him. Tell him it's okay to need help. Sex after maybe? But not necessary."
> 
> The latter part didn't happen, and Bro just turned out stubborn.

It's a gradual thing; you almost don't notice it at first. You think that was the point, but hey, your entire life to this point has been sixteen and a half years of _Hyper Vigilance Boot Camp_ ; so you mean, it's his own fault that you caught on, if you really think about it.

That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it. It didn’t take you a few weeks to put it together, or anything. Nothing escapes you. Clearly.

It started with a few mornings where you had to practically peel yourself out of bed because goddamn Houston in summertime is no time or place to have the AC turned off. Four days into this pattern, when you brought it up, Bro threatened to rip off your hands and beat you with them if you tried to fuck with the temperature. You figured it was probably one of his weird (airquotes) character-building exercises (end airquotes). Considering this (airquotes) exercise (end airquotes) didn't involve the risk of falling off the roof mid-strife, as so many do, you were willing to suck it up for the time being.

Things started getting a bit more suspect when you noticed he was out of the apartment more, picking up more shifts at part-time job number 37b (he changes jobs so often, you don’t bother keeping track). The first time you sauntered out of your room at the crack of noon and _weren’t_ greeted with a sneak attack, you were almost hilariously on-edge. In fact, when he elbowed the front door open later that evening with a smattering of groceries in a plastic bag looped around his arm, your reflexes took over (a polite, face-saving way of saying you screamed like a girl and leapt behind the couch like you were ducking behind sandbags). He told you to _git gud_ and blew you off, ignoring your moment of weakness—and ignoring you in general, actually. That, more than anything, sets you on-guard, ever vigilant for the proverbial sucker punch.

But no; he came home in the evenings without incident, and in fact paid you only the bare minimum amount of mind once he showed up. The time he spends sitting at his computer when he’s home are the longest times you’ve seen him stay in one spot.

So that was warning sign number one, but, you know, whatever, you were getting a bit of peace and quiet for once. You figure he has his reasons.

It was around the point that the food status around the apartment started slipping even lower than usual that you started thinking some foul financial shit was afoot. That standard slipping was a feat in and of itself, seeing as how you are certain you have seen Bro willingly and deliberately eat Doritos drowned in ranch dressing with a fork.

(You know, the more you think about it, the more disgusting some of your brother’s habits are.)

Regardless of Bro’s more questionable habits, the point is that you had entered the land of shitty frozen crap (not even the good frozen crap), and there even seemed to be a lesser quantity of Bro’s signature nutritionally-devoid snacks lying around.

 _That_ set a little flag going up in your head like an overweight Italian plumber at the end of a level, fluttering in the wind as the screams of the poor turtle people slaughtered in his wake echo off the inexplicably sentient hills. … There was a point in that simile, but you lost it. Damn your overflowing wit.

The straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back is the torrent of swear words you heard one afternoon in the midst of developing film in your jerry-rigged closet-darkroom. It was hotter than Satan’s asshole, and you took what comfort you could from the darkness and the distraction.

By this point, you had figured there was more to the no-air-conditioning deal than an (airquotes) exercise (end airquotes).

You had flipped your shades back down over your eyes as you headed back out into the awful light of day and then poked your head out of your room, quiet as you could.

Your attempts at stealth didn’t help you, because by the time your eyes focused Bro was already standing up from his computer. Before you have any chance to reason out what crawled up his ass, he was shoving a sword into your hands and telling you to _meet me on the roof in five minutes or your ass is grass._

The bastard was _tapping his foot_ when you clambered up to the roof to meet him there.

Needless to say, Bro kicked your ass.

He was fighting the way he only fights when he’s _pissed the fuck off_ \-- not even pissed at you, specifically, but strifing as a kind of release valve. You held your own pretty well, if you do say so yourself; it took you a while to go down.

The odd part, though, was that the moment you were down, gravel digging into your back through the thin cotton, he snorted and declared his victory and turned on his heel to go back inside. Not like him at all—he’d always been the sort to rub his victory in and taunt you into another round.

You realized, then, as you lay in the blistering sun and oppressive humidity, staring up at a smog-hazed would-be-blue sky, that he must’ve been really torqued off, and you deemed it best to stay up there a little bit longer.

While you were up there with only the grackles for company, you had too much time to think. Bro had barely given you the time of day lately. While, yes, you appreciated the calm and the quiet at first, relished the knowledge that your bathroom treks at 3 in the morning wouldn’t end in blood and a noise complaint, that comfort was temporary. Before long, it had moved past relaxing and onto _boring_ , and though you’d never admit it out loud, it was fucking _lonely_.

Something had crawled up his ass, and he barely wanted to look at you, let alone chill with you.

You didn’t know why, but that twisted your gut uncomfortably.

You had figured out that it was probably a money issue; you’re not dumb enough to miss that, but it had never really registered to you as an _issue_ issue. Money had never been a problem, as far as you had known.

It was with a sinking feeling that you realized that your not-knowing may well have been intentional, and you were hit with the realization that this may not be a new thing, aside from possibly the severity thereof. And damn if that that didn’t send a guilty sort of weight down into the pit of your stomach.

So you, in your infinite wisdom, hatched a plan right then and there on the roof, getting one hell of a sunburn as you puzzle out the details.

You discover, a few hours later, that his torrent of profanities was over his sites going down because server costs are a bitch.

***

You figured out when you could count on Bro to be out of the house through some _strategic observation_ (always out the door by 10 am, never back before 6 pm, except for Mondays, when he sticks around all day). With that knowledge, you braved the Texas heat and hoofed it on that most holy of job hunts -- made a damn fool of yourself more than once you’re sure, but ask you if you give a fuck -- until you secured a shitty grocery store job willing to work with your ‘under Bro’s nose’ schedule, the walk to which from the apartment _probably_ won’t kill you.

You have never been closer to killing a bitch than you are on a daily basis at this job, but as far as you can tell, Bro’s none the wiser, which suits you fine. The one time he asked where the fuck you keep going, you respond that it’s your God-given right as an asshole teenager to waste your summer the way you see fit. He blows you off.

You figure you deserve both an award and an entire squadron of dancing girls as recompense for not flipping out and hitting any old ladies in the face, but that will come later. When your life plan works out (you’ll win the lottery and spend the rest of your life lounging by the pool while attractive people in skimpy clothing bring you drinks), you’re sure you’ll look back on this and smile.

It takes all of your willpower not to make an obscene gesture of triumph when you sign off for your paycheck on Friday a couple weeks later.

***

So that brings us, at much deliberation, to the present day.

“Hey,” you venture, walking out of your room, casual as you please (who the fuck actually talks like that). Bro’s been back for a few hours by this point, and is engaged in the time-honored tradition of working out his frustrations through judicious application of Tekken.

“Piss off,” he says the moment you enter the room, anticipating a request to play a round or two.

“Yo,” you say.

“I ain’t pausing,” he says, and is true to his word; he plays on, even as you invite yourself onto the couch beside him. He _does_ chance a half-second-long sideways glance from behind those pointed shades, and quirks an eyebrow, but his attention is fixed primarily on the television.

“Get the stick outta your ass,” you mutter, and begin digging through your pockets for your wallet. From within its depths, you pull out a small collection of twenty-dollar bills, and thrust your hand in his direction.

That gets him to pause, but he doesn’t put down his controller, looks at the bills in your hand with all the understanding as if you were handing him a live lobster. “The fuck is this,” he says, and it isn’t a question, more a deadpan drawl.

“Capitalism at work,” you venture, expression even, then - when he does not appreciate your razor wit - you rephrase. “Couple hundred dollars of sweet sweet minimum wage."

He snorts derisively, returning to his game. “Cute. Don’t need it.”

“Dude,” you say, running a hand backwards through your (distressingly sweaty) hair, “I know it ain’t much, but just shut up and take—“

“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” he snaps. You might be imagining it, but you think you see a straight-up menacing anime _shing_ of light crossing his shades. “Shit’s fine. Don’t know where you got it, for all I give a fuck you coulda robbed a bank.” By his tone, you figure he’s put it together in a heartbeat, and he’s just speaking facetiously. “But I ain’t gonna take it.”

You feel a surge of offense – you didn’t work _grocery hell_ just for his ego to get in the way (you do not dwell on the thought that what you’ve done probably doesn’t compare to his efforts, but it’s there). “Man up,” you say, voice laden with echoes of words you’ve had said at you in taunting tones, “and take the damn money. It’s yours.”

You think that _may_ have been the wrong thing to say. He pauses his game to look you dead in the eye (you think, anyway, it’s hard to tell), eyebrow quirked and face dangerously unreadable. “You wanna go?”

You know, you didn't think you'd ever hear someone ask that in full sincerity, but the edge to his voice says the invitation is all too real, and your mouth goes before your brain has time to throw the lever to stop it.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, sounding significantly more cocksure and confident than you feel. You wait for him to throw the controller aside and throw down with you, right here, right now, but he doesn’t. He fixes you with a _look_. He scrutinizes you, then snorts again, shaking his head. You suddenly become acutely aware this is the most you’ve spoken to each other in weeks.

“Shit’s fine,” he says, in a ‘the subject is closed’ way. “And if anything _was_ wrong, it sure as fuck wouldn’t be you I’d come to asking for solutions.”

If his ego was a person, you would punch it in the jaw. No swords, just going straight up Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out on that bitch. That’s less than possible, and you don’t really want to actually punch him in the jaw (it won’t end with you winning if you start a fight right now), so you do the next best thing. “Yeah, I feel you. I mean, it’s cool that I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated away half of my body mass,” you say, and you can almost physically feel the sarcasm in your voice. “I get it, preserve your ego.” You’re still holding out the money.

His frustration leads to him getting his ass kicked by the AI, which leads to him hitting the pause button a bit more forcefully than is strictly necessary as he turns to you. “If I take it, will you quit talkin’ for 30 seconds?” You mime zipping your lips with your free hand. He is not amused, and grabs the stack of bills out of your hand, cramming it into his pocket, and wordlessly goes back to Tekken.

You sit and watch him play for a while. Eventually, you prod him in the arm and insist he lets you take second player, but he acts as though you’re not there, and you grunt, slinking back into your room.

***

Over the weekend, you barely see hide or hair of your brother. You’re working, he’s out of the apartment, and it’s way, way too quiet. You might catch him if he’s asleep on the couch, hear him coming and going from the front door, but he doesn’t really have much to say to you. You get the distinct impression he’s pissed off.

The AC is back on for the first time in five weeks, though, so that’s a plus, and you tell yourself you don't care about anything else.

On Monday, you get the first piece of direct communication you’ve gotten since Friday, in the form of a note stuck to your door with shuriken, a red-pen scrawl reading only " _roof_ ". You hiss profanities through your teeth as you arm yourself and make your way up to the roof. When you emerge, his back is to you. He’s facing away, holding his katana to rest on his shoulder, and you swear he’s deliberately angling it to catch the light just-so.

You frown.

“We gonna strife, or are you just gonna stand around like one of your animu protagonists?” you venture. You swear you catch him let loose an anime-protagonist _heh,_ but there’s no humor present as he rounds on you, unless you happen to find katanas aimed at your face to be the pinnacle of hilarity. You'd like to think your taste in humor is more refined than that.

He’s in rare form today, which is worrying, because when he’s in _normal_ form it’s enough to hand your head to you. Any doubt that he’s pissed off is gone, shouted clear as day in the form of sword-blades and flashsteps.

You do, admittedly, get a few good blows in here and there, but so much of your energy is focused more on _not getting cut in half_ that you find yourself neither proud of your successes nor too terribly bent out of shape about the fact that you’re fighting a losing battle. _(And at least he’s acknowledging you again._ You immediately file that thought safely away into a mental drawer marked ‘to be dealt with never’.)

You’ve been flung on your back, the wind knocked out of you, but you know better than to make a sitting duck of yourself. You roll out of the way just in time to avoid a sword coming down where your neck was seconds before (if you hadn’t moved, he’d have stopped the blade a hair’s-breadth away from your throat, but that knowledge doesn’t seem to do anything for calming your sympathetic nervous system).

You scramble to your feet, and though this strife lasted longer than the last, you rise to your feet expecting to have to leap away or counter—not to see him rest his sword on his shoulder again. “You’re not even trying,” he says, notes of contempt bubbling under the surface of his words, and you feel your hands clench around the hilt of your sword in frustration, and it is that tiny thing that sends you boiling over (and not just because it is too damn hot out here).

You lunge at him with five weeks’ worth of anger behind it – a swing that he counters with what seems lie the flick of a wrist, knocking your weapon out of your hands. You look between him and your sword as it skitters across the roof, then back to him again.

“What the hell is your problem?” you ask, running a hand backwards through sweat-drenched hair because your newly-empty hands need something to do.

“Don’t got one. Just suck less, you’ll win more.”

You call bullshit. You call bullshit so hard. “It’s about the money, isn’t it?” you say, by way of calling bullshit.

He meets your accusation with a swing of his blade and you have to scramble for yours, and just like that you’re back in the swing of it again. You’re not sure if he’s holding back, or if your frustration lit a fire under your ass, but either way, it’s turning out less like an episode of _Dave Losing Horrifically, Every Time, Forever_ (Mondays at 3).

You’re pretty sure that was a ‘yes, that is exactly why my ego is wounded, how _did_ you know’, at any rate.

You lock swords and before you realize what’s going down, the answer is you; for the second goddamn time today you end up staring up at the sky, face-up on the roof. This time, in the blink of an eye, there’s the business side of a blade at your throat and you swear.

“I don’t need help,” he says firmly and he’s got you pinned down. “ _Especially_ not from you.”

And then Bro’s gone again, his weight gone into the air and he’s turned to go back inside and your brain is still in fight-or-flight mode mixed with anger and something you are filing right in the ‘deal with never’ drawer.

“What the fuck is the big deal?” you demand at his back, and he keeps walking, so you follow him down the stairwell, hot on his heels. “It’s not like I’m ten, dude, I understand—“

He’s quiet until you’re back inside; once you are, he rounds on you so suddenly you nearly slam into him. “It ain’t your problem to worry about,” he says and you’re so sick of hearing what seems like the same lines repeated like a broken record (hah).

“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I live here too, so yeah, it is,” you counter back, and before you can stop yourself, your habit of rambling performs what you believe an expert would call _the act of digging you deeper._ “But I mean, hell, you probably have forgotten, pretty sure I could replace myself with a toaster in a wig and you wouldn’t notice.”

“Drop the self-pity parade, kid,” he snorts, making to turn around.

“Hypocrite,” you mutter. You can almost _hear_ his eyes narrow. Your brain, at this point, chimes in with a pithy little _in for a penny, in for a pound_ , and you go ahead. “I promise, even with your ego so wounded up that it’s in ER on life support and hitting on the nurses—“

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says shortly, like it is a big deal and you want to punch him right in his stupid face.

What happens is not that.

What happens is that, without knowing why you do it – maybe pent-up frustration with the fact that he won’t let you get two sentences out, maybe the ‘deal with it later’ drawer is overflowing, maybe you’re tired of being ignored, maybe you’re trying to make some kind of comforting gesture, or maybe you’re just a _fucking idiot_ (you think that last option is looking like a strong contender) – you close the distance between the two of you and you have to stand on tiptoe but you kiss him.

Punch, kiss, same thing, right?

It’s not a deep kiss, but he stares at you blankly when you pull away from him, and you look as confused as he does.

“You can ask for help, dumbass,” you say.

“No, I can’t.”


	2. ... is Easier Said than Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN FIFTY YEARS  
> or like  
> a year and a half? a year and three quarters? lololol god this is late

It’s been very nearly two weeks and as far as you can recall, he hasn’t said a word to you. You’re used to some degree of taunting and antagonism and grunts, and really you had prepared yourself for it, but he’s pretty much completely silent-treatment-ing you, and somehow, that’s worse.  
…  
Actually, you think you’ve only seen him like two or three times at all. At least, in full view; you’ve seen Cal plenty, no matter how much you wish that he’d be as scarce as your brother, and you’d swear you’d seen the faint ghost of your brother ducking in and out of your peripheral vision, but you might just be being paranoid.

But hey! That’s half the fun of living in Casa del Strider: never having a goddamn clue if your perceptions are telling you the truth. If you had gas lamps you’d half expect to see them dimmed ever-so-subtly. Yeah, that’s right. You read books. You know the origins of things. (Wait, isn’t Gas Light a play? Fuck.)

But he goes to work (you’re ninety percent sure he’s picked up extra shifts), and you go to work, and he presumably comes back, and you come back, and– that’s it. You haven’t seen him Mondays, and you’d swear he had just straight up ditched you and that Satan’s puppety little buddy had just legitimately gained sentience enough to move around when you’re not looking.

You’re not entirely sure which is more ridiculous– the latter idea, or the fact that you believe in Bro enough to believe he hasn’t just ditched you.

You know you fucked up pretty fantastically; you just wish you knew what part really did you in.

It’s around 8 PM on Friday night, and you’re not scheduled on tomorrow. In your wallet, crammed in your pocket, is the cashed-out form of your paycheck for another two weeks of not flipping the fresh fuck out on the general population. In your hands, an Xbox controller. On your brain: a whole big fat load of nothing. You’re plastered to the futon with sweat because the AC can only do so much and you try not to blast it because, you know, uncertaintly and shit, and you’re fully prepared to not have to move until you peel yourself up and go to bed at some ungodly hour.

So when the door opens behind you,  you – understandably, in your opinion – nearly jump like a high-strung cat on the fourth of July. Instead, you just flail and juggle the controller, which proceeds to bean you in the face.

Dignity. Grace. Thy name is Dave Strider. (Damn straight it is. Remember that time you jumped off the couch and screamed like a girl? You’re a stronger man, now. Braver. Wiser.  
… right.)

You keep your cool and crane your neck over the back of the futon and in walks the man of the hour himself, walking slow enough to see in all his glory for what – after weeks of nothing – feels like the first time ever. You half expect him to ignore you, to cooly act as if you’re not there, so it’s kind of a shock when he makes a vague grunt in your general direction.

You’ll take it.

“Hey,” you say and he doesn’t respond, but you didn’t expect him to.

You try not to be too obvious as you, with bated breath, watch him cross over to the window to crank up the AC.

(You absolutely fail at not being obvious when he strips off the shitty blue work polo he’s got on, right there on the spot. It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless, because half the time he struts around bare from the waist up when he’s kicking your ass, but–  
You know, actually, that makes the fact that you’re staring like a 13 year old worse? But, come on, he’s got a farmer’s tan and not nearly enough fat considering his shitty diet and he looks like the kind of guy that anime nerds who wield swords dearly wish they looked like when they brandish their katanas for their Tinder profiles.)

(Look. If you thought it was lonely before when he was just being evasive and quiet, you realized that it can always get worse, and you had to ask yourself some real hard questions, like about why you thought it was a good idea to try and kiss your brother and– HA HA HA HA NO LOL you completely fucking slam dunked that entire train of thought right into the garbage where it belongs. Turns out there’s always more room in the deal-with-never bin.)

You would have gotten away with it, too, if not for your meddling game of Street Fighter going tits-up while you’re busy looking elsewhere.

“The fuck you want?” he asks, blunt, in his usual affect,  like he hasn’t just gone almost two weeks without talking to you. You’re not sure if it’s comforting or infuriating. You wonder if you should say anything, but your mouth feels dry all of a sudden. You can feel him making eye contact with you even through both of your shades, and it’s way too late to break it now.

You’re still the first one to look away, and he seems satisfied with that. He crosses over to the couch and picks up the second controller– then hands it to you and takes the first-player controller out of your hands. You make no move to stop him, because what the hell are you supposed to do or say here? You don’t really have a protocol for this.

He quits out of your game, and you’re left sitting there looking at the controller in your hands like you’ve not quite sure what it is or what to do with it. You’ve got a lot of shit on the brain, swirling around like a gigantic bullshit tornado about to touch down on some trailer park in Oklahoma.

“Are you going to pick a character or not?”  
You jump back to attention like you were snapped out of sleep. Bro’s sat down on the couch next to you– okay, on the other side of the couch, but still, it’s proximity – and is side-eyeing you expectantly. You realize this may be some form of the wild Bro attempting to communicate with you.

Time to ruin it!

“So like,” you say, before you can stop yourself, even as you feel a dozen more characteristic words die in your throat, “what’s been going on?”  
Admittedly, you realize about halfway through the word ‘like’ that this is the wrong thing to ask and you fully expect Bro to blow you off. (Is it wrong that you kind of find yourself /hoping/ that he’ll challenge you to a strife instead?)  
But he meets you with a stony stare yet again, the kind that dares you to look away first, and for the second time, you are absolutely the chump who looks away first.

“None of your business,” your brother says, turning towards you, and you swear, you want that phrase either tattooed on your forehead or engraved on your tombstone. Possibly both! You want to offer your paycheck. You want to demand an explanation. You want to know what’s up, where he’s been, why he isn’t talking to you.

You realize that no matter what you say to Bro, you’re not going to make a damn bit of difference, because he’s a brick wall. He always has been, he’s always going to be, and it doesn’t matter how many times you throw yourself head long at a brick wall, the brick wall is going to be left standing while you’ve got a concussion.

On that note, you kiss him again, because your name is Dave Strider and you’re a fucking moron.

Well, it’s not that simple; we’re kind of missing some steps here. Like how you set the controller down, and how you have to peel yourself off the futon (really sexy, there, self) and shift towards him on the futon and decide you may as well, and, you know, the 500 other bad decisions that had to fall in place for this moment to happen.

But, yeah, ultimately they lead to you closing the gap between you two and planting your lips on his. You fully expect to get shoved off, or punched in the gut, or any number of things.  
None of them happens.

What does happen?

…  
He kisses back, which is really distressing and not something you were prepared for in the damndest.

He kisses back and you notice the stubble on his chin, like he hasn’t had the chance to shave quite right, and hey, turns out whether you expected it or not, that kiss is about to get significantly deeper than it was a moment ago. Weird things happen, turns out, when you’re confused and lonely and horny and your brother is– your brother, who may or may not have any number of emotions or feelings on this subject for all the clue you have.  
Weird things like how you run your hands over his chest like an idiot teenager (which you are) and tuck your fingers into his beltloops and his hands wander down south to do dual duty, one pushing up the hem of the front of your shirt and the other ends up on your ass because your brother can be an obtsue, roundabout fuck about many things but this is not one of them.

You’re glad for that because you’re pretty sure, if it wouldn’t be the lamest possible thing to do in this situation, you might just weep.

You have a boner and you’re certain he’s aware of it, and he’s not shoving your ass to the floor nor is he kicking said ass up and down the roof, and you’re going to count that as progress.  
(He’s doing entirely the opposite because the hand that started under your shirt is totally palming that erection you’re sporting and you want more than anything to ask for a fucking explanation and you know that you’ll be crowned the king of a remote Scandanavian micronation before you get anything even resembling one.)

You know that when this is over you’re going to have no explanation, he’s still going to refuse your help, he’s still going to work himself tired and spend sleepless nights doing website work when he’s not out of the house.  
You know in your heart that he’s probably going to pretend this never happened, and that he’s going to deal with it the same way he always does– that is to say, by absolutely not dealing with it.

But for right now, you’ll just take the fact that he’s here.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re a fucking moron.


End file.
